Night Poem V

The night brings its own openings,
its own fissures of chance,
to those initiated in its bittersweet fruits.
On a bridge strung from dark star to dark star,

youth blooms from the icy flow,
and I am thrust from my memories,
and I am shown the beginning of my life.
And trembling,

I am filled with the beauty of
what is to come,
and the immensity of my soul.
The galaxies full of sadness,

that until now waited,
embrace me like a comrade,
while the night sings in a riot of stones below.
And I am now the sensation

no one could describe,
and I am equipped for my life
with a blindfold of journeys,
and I wear a robe of mountains.

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Autumn, Wanganui River

The river, a black tongue,
wears the early winter like a shawl,
winds up the festivals
of the reckless summer eaters.
Already life evicted
and only now the absence
of the kingfisher, the heron,
the wind that hurtles through the reeds,
drunken, reeling.
The madness of fall,
of life that would hold on,
and the colours baked fiercer
under the husk of the sun,
the summer turned inward,
purple hunger, devouring,
leaving this world
a burnt-out gourd,
and the river, like a wintry eel,
dripping its black skin
in long strips to muzzle the land.